


An Idle Path

by strid



Category: Naruto
Genre: Angst, Gen, Horror, Madness, POV Uchiha Sasuke, Psychological Horror, Uchiha Sasuke-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:54:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24690367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strid/pseuds/strid
Summary: The picture is crooked and Sasuke can’t go home.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 60





	An Idle Path

Sasuke is not allowed back into the compound after the massacre. But this, of course, does not stop him from going.

He slips out of the hospital in the middle of the night. It isn’t hard — no one is watching him and his room is on the first floor. So he hoists himself up onto the windowsill and crawls out.

He lands hard on the ground, harder than he thought he would, and the force of it sends needles up his legs. A small rock bites painfully into his bare heel and he jumps forward a step, grimacing and cradling his foot with his hand. He looks down and brushes the rock away, feels the indent left behind in his skin. The bead of blood is warm under his thumb.

He doesn’t know exactly how to get to the compound from here, but he starts walking in what he thinks is the right direction. Some of the shops look familiar, and he vaguely recalls a few of the street names. But he still gets lost and has to spend most of the night backtracking and retracing his steps.

His legs hurt and his feet are sore by the time he finally happens upon the gates. The hazard tape wrapped around them looks wrong, but its presence oddly makes him feel a bit better, makes him feel like there’s a barrier between him and what happened. The wind blows and the tape bulges out towards him. Sasuke imagines that it’s telling him to leave, giving him a chance to turn back around.

He ignores it and walks inside.

The streets are quiet, the bodies are gone, and Sasuke can almost convince himself that everyone is just asleep. He wanders, looks at all of the old buildings and stubbornly pushes away the memory of the awful things Itachi showed him. He tries to remember stupid moments, silly little pockets of time that he hadn’t fully appreciated. The bustling streets; the smell of the food stalls; the conversations he had with his aunt and uncle in front of their shop. But his mind is unfocused. He can’t picture anyone’s face — they blur together in his mind, forming one hideous, amorphous shape. His aunt’s skin bleeds into his mother’s, their cheekbones and jaws painfully shattering together. Izumi’s smile is overtaken by Shisui’s wide grin, and it soaks deep into the memory of his father’s scowl. And their eyes. Their eyes their eyes their eyes.

He can only remember Itachi’s eyes.

He ends up walking to his house. Not because he wants to, but because he can’t stop his body from taking him there. It looms in front of him, a giant shadow smeared on the sky. He takes his shoes off before going inside.

The house should be quiet, but it isn’t. A noise comes from the kitchen when he closes the door and Sasuke childishly wonders if it’s his mother. The thought comes unbidden to his mind, that maybe this is just a bad dream, that maybe his clan isn’t really dead and his parents’ blood isn’t soaked into the wood floor and his brother still loves him and everything is fine it is fine i̶̗͝t̴̝͒ i̶̗͝s̶̢̕ ̶̦̂f̷̢̀i̷̬͗n̸̮͗e̶̙̒.

But it isn’t fine. It’s only a cat.

Sasuke watches numbly as it hisses at him and jumps down from the counter. It sprints down the hall and Sasuke doesn’t try to stop it; it’s not as if it’s bothering anyone, anyway.

He finds himself walking through the house mindlessly, his footsteps deafening as they rasp across the floorboards. He feels the shadows following him quietly, stalking him. He imagines that they’re waiting for him to stop, waiting so they can wrap their tendrils around his ankles and push their way into his skin, using his bloodstream to travel up and up and _up_ until they finally swell into his throat, gagging him, suffocating him, forcing him to succumb to the memories of his family’s bloody, broken bodies. But he pushes them away, keeps himself two steps ahead. He walks and walks and walks and tries not to think about how empty his chest feels.

But then he reaches the room. And the shadows consume him.

• • •

Sasuke is officially allowed back into the compound one week after the massacre. It isn’t meant to be a long visit — he is merely told to retrieve a few personal belongings, things he wants moved into an apartment that feels too big and too lonely for him.

The house is less foreboding in the day time, the sun bleaching the shadows until they scream and scurry away to hide in the deepest corners of each room. It makes him feel a bit braver, a little less desolate. He doesn’t take his shoes off when he goes inside.

The cat is nowhere to be found, though Sasuke would never admit to looking for it in the first place. The disappointment that latches onto his chest catches him off guard, but he ignores it. He needs to get used to not coming home to anyone.

The first things he grabs are practical: his school books, homework, and ninja tools. He shoves them all into a bag, drags it behind him as he roams through the house and tries to think of anything else he might want. But everything is calling out to him and demanding his attention with their jumble of memories and he can’t bring himself to grab one item but leave another because this was his _life_ and how is he supposed to boil it down to just a few objects?

But then he sees the painting. And he stops.

It’s a small square canvas, hanging alone in the hallway. He doesn’t remember where it came from or why his family had it, doesn’t know its title or the name of the person who painted it. But he knows that his mother loved it. She would stop and stare at it occasionally, the laundry basket at her hip or the food cooking in the kitchen momentarily forgotten as she lost herself in its lines.

Sasuke tried to understand what she saw in it, he really did. He would park himself in front of the painting and squint his eyes until they hurt, _willing_ himself to catch sight of whatever was within it that had so entranced his mother. But he never found it. And looking at it now, he still can’t see it. 

He never quite understood art, but he thinks that even the most knowledgeable person would have trouble making sense of this piece. It’s an abstract, wild ebony brushstrokes tangling with bright strips of blue and red, the lines seemingly placed at random and without much care. It’s messy and ugly and Sasuke can’t fathom why someone would’ve painted it.

But he stares at it.

And stares.

And s̶̪̮͖̄ţ̷͎̮̍̄̏å̶͖̃̿r̸̨̡̙͋̔̎ȩ̵̖̀s̵̥̱̾́̈.

And then he plucks it from the wall and walks out of the house.

• • •

The apartment is in the middle of Konoha. The streets outside are too loud and the lights are too bright and the person above him keeps walking around in the middle of the night and he doesn’t like the place much at all. But he moves his stuff in and doesn’t complain. After all, he doesn’t have anywhere better to go.

He leans the painting against the wall near his bed. He puts it there largely as an after thought, unsure of what he should actually do with it. It doesn’t fit with the rest of the space, its odd patterns in sharp contrast with the room’s clean cut modernism. But he can’t bring himself to hide it away. So he leaves it there on the floor, where it’s not quite part of the apartment but not quite removed from it, either.

Sometimes he’ll turn over and stare at it in the middle of the night when he can’t sleep, studying the peculiar shadows cast onto it by the moonlight. He still doesn’t understand the painting, still doesn’t think it makes much sense, but it makes him feel at ease in those moments. And perhaps that’s the point of it.

• • •

Sasuke graduates from the Academy. On the same day, he decides to hang up the painting.

He does it on a whim after placing his headband on his dresser. The weather is hot and sticky, the air in the apartment suffocating, and he is moving to turn on his fan so he can _breathe_ when he catches sight of the painting in the corner of his eye.

Its presence startles him and he doesn’t entirely know why. It’s exactly where he last left it, but it looks different; it _feels_ different. He would swear that it was looking at him, _assessing_ him. His skin prickles at the thought, but he shakes it off and jabs his finger at the fan’s switch. He throws himself on his bed, tries to focus on the air coasting over his burning skin. _It’s just a stupid picture,_ he reminds himself. A stupid, ugly picture.

Picture.

Picture.

Ṗ̴̲͝i̵̦̇̋̀c̵͙͒̀̽͜t̷͍͛͜ͅư̷̘͈̬̔̚ṙ̴̻̒͐ĕ̴̯̮.

He gets up and takes down one of the scrolls lining the wall. He puts the picture up in its place.

• • •

The picture is crooked.

Crooked.

C̷̺͍͊͌̀r̶͍̊̀͠ͅö̴̞͚́̊o̵̱͑͌̈́k̴̦͕̤̈́̔̅e̸̲͛ḓ̸͛͊͝.

He notices it after he comes back from training with his new _team_. He doesn’t particularly like them, thinks that Naruto is a complete dunce and Sakura hopelessly distracted, and he’s lamenting the current state of his life when he steps inside his apartment and catches sight of the crooked, _crooked_ , painting.

He stops and stares at it. It’s slight, the canvas only tilting down a few millimeters. But against the bare wall, it’s insufferably obvious. Especially to him.

He walks over and pushes it up slightly. Takes a few steps back.

Still crooked.

He huffs a breath and goes to fumble with it more, trying to get it perfectly balanced on the nail. But he can’t get it _straight_ , and the lines that once brought him peace are fueling agitation through his body and it’s crooked crooked c̷̗̞̄̈́͠r̵͕̱̪̂o̸̠̅o̶̗͒̾k̸̥̕e̵̮̓͌d̶͕̚͝͠.

Hours pass. It’s midnight and he’s tired and he desperately wants to go to sleep. But he can’t sleep i̵̻͔̅̌f̴̧̿͐ ̴̱̝̣͂͊i̷͎̐͒t̶̠̣͋’̵̭̱̝͘s̴͈̘͌ ̴̪̃͠c̷͎͂ṙ̸͎̓͜͝o̵̲̙̟͆̐̕o̴̙̖̱̔̂ḱ̶̭̩ȩ̵͈̕͜ď̷̻͆̂. He knows that the painting is laughing at him, mocking him, and his brain feels like it’s on fire and h̷̢̤͕͛̄i̵̦̦͘ͅs̷̥͚̑ ̸͕͐̅e̴̘̬͇͗ÿ̴̳́̓e̵̗̞̿͂͝ş̶̏́̑ ̸̼̞̈̈́̑a̶̝̅́̀r̴̝͍̮͋̌̓e̸̮̬̞̽ ̴͍̐͝b̸̭͂u̸̯̮̺͂͒̒r̶̺̖̿̆͊n̶̖͕̈̚͜ḯ̶̧̝́n̷̹͗͒g̶̤̘̐̌̅ ̶̘̓̃̆á̶̺̑ñ̵̘̣͋̌d̷̖̠̉̂͠ ̷͉̘͠ͅ—̸̮̂

He sighs. Pushes the painting along the nail until it’s balanced in the top left corner. It hangs as a diamond on the wall now instead of a square, and Sasuke feels a weight lift off his shoulders.

The sun comes up and he finally goes to sleep.

• • •

Sasuke almost dies in the Land of Waves. Nothing about his life changes much afterwards; he continues on as usual, recovers from his injuries. But he can no longer stand to look at the painting. Not for more than a few seconds.

 _Stifling_ is the word that comes to mind whenever he sees it now. The black paint overwhelms the entire composition, dominating the blues and reds until it’s all Sasuke can see. Sometimes he even thinks he sees the painting _move_ , the darkness spreading like ink across the canvas until no color is left at all.

It reminds him of the bridge, reminds him of the way the sky bled into nothingness before his eyes and the way his heart slowed and he could barely feel it beating in his chest and it was gone ĩ̶̤t̸̬͐ ̵͍͊w̴̹͑ȁ̷͓s̷͎̉ ̸̳̿g̴̝̀ȍ̸͍n̸̰͆è̷͔ ̴̼͠a̷̛͚n̸̺͐ď̶̢ ̴͖́h̴̤͊e̶͓͌ ̴̛͜w̴̦̌ả̷̹s̴͖̍ ̷̓ͅg̶͇͘o̸͔͐ṋ̸̓e̵̦̕ ̵̖̂å̸̘n̸̻̏d̵͖̓ ̸̼̔d̸͈̽y̶͙̚i̶͛ͅn̵͓̈́g̷͇͋ ̶̻̄a̵̺̾n̴̙̿d̵̖̍ ̵̯̇ț̷̈́h̷̜͂e̷͖͂ȑ̵̨e̷͕͋ ̶̞͐ẅ̴̺́ả̵̱s̸̘͝ ̴̩͗n̴̨̚o̴͖͐t̴̯̃h̷̙͝i̷̩͋n̴͕͛ǵ̴ͅ ̴̘̏ĺ̵̨ẹ̵̄f̶̨̈t̶̲̓ ̷̹̐n̵͙͘ȏ̸͔ẗ̸͎h̶͔̀i̸̜͋ň̸̰g̶̲͋ ̶̤̍l̶͔̀e̷̮͠f̴̱̃t̶̮̚ ̵̝̃a̸̻͗t̷͉̓ ̴̝͑a̴̺̔l̶̡̈l̷͖͗. 

But he lived. And so here he is, looking at the painting.

It becomes a game — how long can he stare at it before the memories overtake him. He thinks that he’ll eventually become desensitized to it, that one day it will transform back into a normal painting and everything will be like it was before.

He lasts 34 seconds.

• • •

Sasuke doesn’t want them in his apartment. He doesn’t want _anyone_ in his apartment. But he is late that morning because he needs to talk to the landlady and Sakura keeps _pestering_ him about it and he eventually just tells her he’s getting a new apartment and he immediately regrets it because now she’s looking at him with those big green eyes and asking if he needs any _help_ moving and of course the answer is _no_ but then Naruto wants to turn it into some sort of _competition_ and starts claiming that he could, without a doubt, move the most boxes out of them all and Kakashi chimes in because he thinks it would be a great _team building_ exercise and Sasuke feels his ears start to ring and a sharp pressure firmly builds in the back of his skull and he just wants them to l̵̮͆e̶̖̒ạ̶͐v̵̨͛e̵͝ͅ ̴̡̈́h̸̪͂ĩ̶͍m̵̜͐ ̸̭͘a̶͙͠l̵͕̀ò̵̧n̴̫̈́e̵̡͛.

But now they are here. In his apartment. Touching his things and moving his stuff down to the bottom floor so they can walk it over to his new place.

The painting is still hanging on the wall. He forgets about it entirely until he walks inside and sees Sakura staring at it, her nose a mere inch away. She seems to feel him watching her and glances over.

“Sorry, I was just admiring it,” she explains, a self-conscious smile forming on her lips. 

He nods, tries to pretend like he doesn’t care. Because he doesn’t. It’s just a stupid painting, after all.

“It’s fine.” He goes to grab another box.

“I didn’t know you liked art,” she says, picking up a box herself and following him down the stairs. “Where’d you get it from?”

He wishes she’d drop it, wishes he wouldn’t have to talk about the damn painting. But he can’t just ignore her, because then she would never forget about it. So he answers slowly, quietly. “It was my mother’s.”

Naruto rounds the corner at that moment and rushes past both of them, taking the stairs two at a time. “You’re both so slow!” he calls down, now a full flight above them. “I’m kicking your asses!”

“Naruto!” Sakura cries, and Sasuke hears the contents of her box bang roughly against each other as she tries not to fall. A few of the items sound like glass.

He rolls his eyes, continues walking down the steps. At this rate, everything he owns will be broken.

Sasuke and Sakura walk back upstairs, each of them bracing in preparation for Naruto’s inevitable mad dash back down to the street. But he doesn’t come. And then Sasuke walks into the room to see Naruto peering at the picture and _goddamn it_ this day was never going to end.

“...I don’t get it.” Naruto eventually mumbles, cocking his head. “What’s it supposed to be?”

Sasuke only grunts. The hell if he knows.

“It’s an _abstract_ painting, Naruto,” Sakura explains, her voice sickeningly sweet. “It’s not literal.”

Naruto looks towards Sasuke, the confusion clear on his face. “And you...like it?” He jabs his thumb towards it. “Like, actually? Because it’s pretty ugly.”

Sasuke leaves the apartment with another box when Sakura hits Naruto over the head, yelling at him about _manners_ and _not understanding real art_. He hopes they’ll be done by the time he comes back, hopes they’ll forget about the stupid painting and just finish helping him move so they can finally _leave_.

He realizes that this was wishful thinking when he returns; now they’re both planted in front of the painting, their eyes glued to its unpleasant shapes. Neither of them sees him come in.

“I wonder who it’s by.” Sakura leans closer to it, squinting her eyes. “I don’t see a name or any initials.” Naruto shrugs, not having a ready answer for once. They stare at it in silence, just like his mother used to, both utterly lost to the physical world.

Minutes pass, and Sasuke finally loses his patience.

“Are you two going to help?” he drawls, annoyance dripping from every word. Their heads simultaneously whip towards him.

“Sorry!” Sakura titters, moving quickly to grab a large box. But Naruto doesn’t move; he only looks back at the painting. And Sasuke’s blood begins to boil.

“Oi, loser,” he walks up to Naruto and jabs him hard in the arm. “Sakura and I aren’t —“

He stops when Naruto looks at him. His eyes are dazed, glassy; it makes Sasuke’s skin crawl.

The moment only lasts for a second: Naruto shakes his head, a sharp back and forth, and gives Sasuke a wide smile. “Never mind, I think I get it now.”

Sasuke only raises an eyebrow, his nerves still bristling. “Get what?”

Naruto’s jaw snaps open in a wide yawn as he moves away from Sasuke. “The painting,” he explains, his voice uncharacteristically mellow. “I think I get the painting now.” And then Naruto leaves and Sasuke is left wondering what in the ever living hell just happened.

He turns and glares at the canvas. It stares back at him, silent.

After a few seconds, the paint starts to bubble. 

Bubble, bubble, _bubble_.

And now it’s dripping dow̸̓͜n̶̈͜ ̴͙̾t̴̛̥h̶̢̍e̵̳͊ ̸̺́w̵̦̑a̷͔̍l̵̳͗l̵̰͗ ̷̲̈́á̴̰n̸̛̯d̶̘̅ ̵̜̍o̸͐ͅo̴̢͌z̶̨̾i̵̙̓n̸̥͂ǵ̵̬ ̸̼͝o̴̧̕n̶͓͒t̴͎̐o̸̮͗ ̷̅ͅt̵̼̅h̶̪̀e̴̫͛ ̶̼̍f̵͎̓l̴̗͛ŏ̷̖o̸͎̎r̸͉͆ ̸̳̃a̶̲̍n̴͖͐ḍ̷̈ ̵̟͆ŝ̷͎t̸͖̀a̸̛̮i̴̢͗n̶̼͐i̷̡̒n̶̮̍g̵̹͆ ̸́ͅṱ̶̄h̸͉͋ë̷̠́ ̸̣̐ ̶̰̀c̸͎͆a̴̖̓r̸̬̒p̶̫͑ę̵̈t̶̪͒ ̵͖͘ą̴̕n̵̫̓d̸̟̏ ̵̛̙—̸͎͝ ̷͔͐

He grabs it and walks out.

• • •

He’s started seeing faces in the painting, but he doesn’t tell anyone. He does this for two main reasons.

One, he doesn’t know who he would tell.

And two, he doesn’t know how he would even begin to explain it.

What could he possibly say? That sometimes the lines of the painting cruelly morph in the middle of the night, that the colors muddy together until he swears he can see his mother’s face, or Shisui’s, or sometimes even his father’s? He knows it sounds crazy, because it is. The painting isn’t moving or changing or doing _anything_. He tells himself that it’s just the lighting, that it casts odd shadows over the canvas and his brain is subconsciously trying to turn the new shapes into something ɹ̸̠̅ɐ̷̭̀ᴉ̷͎̚l̸̮͑ᴉ̶̧́ɯ̶̛͇ɐ̵̯̊ɟ̷̯͗.

But he still stops sleeping because of it. He can’t bring himself to look away from the picture, not even when his body is crying for rest. He can’t stop himself from staring at it at all until the sun eventually rises and the lines and colors hasten back to their customary place.

Kakashi is the first to notice.

It’s in the middle of their training session. Sasuke is sparring with Naruto and he feels _off_ , knows he looks _off_ , and is mostly just hoping that no one will say anything about it.

But then Naruto punches him dead in the face and Kakashi finally interrupts.

“Alright, alright, that’s enough.” He nods his head towards Sakura. “Sakura, trade places with Sasuke.” Naruto laughs his ass off while Sasuke grumbles under his breath, rubbing his jaw as he makes his way over to Kakashi. He sits down next to the man with a huff and watches as Sakura and Naruto fall into position.

“Not too sharp today, I see,” Kakashi remarks, idly flipping through his book. “You usually don’t leave yourself that open. Especially against Naruto.”

Sasuke pulls his knees against his chest and buries his aching chin between them.

“The loser just got lucky,” he mutters.

Kakashi _hmms_ in response. Sasuke narrows his eyes and looks over at the man, but Kakashi is pointedly ignoring him now. So Sasuke does the same and returns his attention back to the sparring match.

Kakashi speaks again a few minutes later, just as Naruto leaps away from Sakura’s fist. 

“You’re not sleeping.” It’s not a question, so Sasuke isn’t entirely sure how Kakashi wants him to respond.

He lifts his shoulder in a shrug.

Kakashi sighs and places his book back in his pocket. “You’ve been out of it for the past few meetings,” he begins, and Sasuke can’t help but feel like he’s being scolded. He wants to tell Kakashi that he isn’t _trying_ to lose sleep, that he’d love nothing more than to crawl into bed and let his mind slowly dribble into unconsciousness.

But the painting. The painting the paỉ̸͕ń̷͎t̵͎̂ȉ̷̬n̶̖͊g̷̟͝ ̷͍͛t̸͇̃h̴͎̕ȅ̶̥

p̸͆ͅ  
ä̸͇́  
i̴̟̎  
ṅ̷̦  
t̷̝͠  
ĭ̵̱  
n̴̥̕  
g̶̨̈́

He clenches his teeth and lets the words die stagnant on his tongue.

Kakashi looks at him, and Sasuke swears that the man almost seems _concerned_. “Why don’t you take the next training session off,” he says, taking Sasuke by surprise. “I’ll make up an excuse for you so Naruto and Sakura don’t bother you about it. Just try and rest up, okay?”

Sasuke scowls, anger simmering in his chest. “I don’t need you to _baby_ me, Kakashi,” he snarls. “I can take care of myself.”

Kakashi only shrugs and takes his book back out. “It’s your choice,” he tells him.

Two days later, Team 7 has another training session. Sasuke doesn’t go. He spends the day sleeping, his mind soothed now that the sun is there to keep the lines of the painting firmly in place.

• • •

Sasuke’s doesn’t want to go home. He finds excuse after excuse, spending more time training, humoring Naruto’s ridiculous pleas for team lunches and dinners, even just aimlessly walking the streets. He uses a bench near the training grounds as a bed for one night, telling himself that it isn’t worth going _all the way_ home when he’s just going to have to come back in a few hours to meet with Kakashi and the others. Anything to keep himself away from the apartment, from the _painting_. 

He knows it’s pathetic, doesn’t think he’d be able to stomach the embarrassment if anyone found out that he refuses to go home because of a _picture_. He considers getting rid of it, throwing it away and pretending like it never existed. But that in and of itself feels like a sort of _surrender_ , and he can’t decide whether he thinks it more shameful to physically run from a painting or to admit that he can’t mentally handle being around it.

It takes some time, but he eventually takes the painting down. He gives it away to the shadows, shoving it _deep_ into the back corner of his closet. It seems like a good compromise; he isn’t admitting total defeat, only putting it away for a time.

The space feels considerably lighter once it is hidden away, and he tries hard not to revel in it.

He doesn’t leave his apartment for three days straight.

• • •

The curse mark gives him fever dreams.

They’re terribly twisted things that he can’t wake himself up from, distorting his perception of reality so horribly that when he opens his eyes he can’t tell whether he’s awake or simply in another layer of hell.

He wakes up one night gasping. Blood is pounding through his skull and his limbs are like stone, locked tight in place against his mattress. The sheets feel like they’re strangling him, wrapping tight around his body and _pulling_ , cutting him in half and he’s trying to _breathe_ and tell himself that none of it is _real_ and he just needs to remain ca̸̜͐l̵̳͝m̸̺̉ ̷͔̈́ä̵̼́ṉ̵̍d̷̟͊ ̸̧̎ȋ̸̢ṯ̵̛ ̵̱̋w̶̖͆i̷̮͒l̶̟̄ḻ̴͗ ̵̥̈́ä̸̱́l̵̡̎l̸̩͗ ̵̳̉g̸̭̊o̴̮͗ ̸͚̿a̵̖͝w̶̨̏a̵̯̐y̶̮͗ ̵͔͠s̵̉ͅõ̶̲ǒ̵̪n̸̠̎ ̵́ͅä̸̖́n̶̲͆d̴̼͝ ̶̖͘h̷̞͋ẹ̴̊ ̸̫͊i̶̥͆ś̴͔ ̸̺̌f̸̠͒ỉ̵̭n̸̫̕e̴̮̓ ̷͖̀h̶̨͛ȩ̸͑ ̴̖̏ǐ̷̠s̴̹̈́ ̵̘̎f̸̡̐i̶̓͜n̷̪̂e̶̞͊ ̸͓̑h̴͙͝e̴̠͒ ̵̣̎i̷̲̊s̷̹̊ ̸̝͘f̴̼̀ỉ̶ͅn̶̝͒e̸̙̐ ̷̤͌a̸̞͆n̸͓̅ḋ̶͜ ̸̜̔—̵̠͋

He hears a gurgling noise. A sharp inhalation rattles through the apartment.

He rolls his eyes to the right, pushing them as far over as they’ll go because he can’t _move his head_ but s̴̹͠o̴̧͝m̸̛͎ē̶̳t̴̨̒h̵̭͝i̷͉͘ņ̷͝g̷̝̿ ̸͕̃î̸͔s̴͈͝ ̵̜̌t̸̪̊h̵̯̿ē̴̘r̵̻͋e̶͕͐.

Seconds pass in silence.

And

then

a gasp.

He thinks it’s coming from the closet.

Breathing.

Breathing.

_Breathing_ **B A N G.**

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 _ **LET ME OUT.**_  
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LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET ME OUT LET MEOUTLETMEOUTLETMEOUTLETMEOUTLETMEOUTLETMEOUTLETMEOUTLETMḚ̶͌O̵̜̚U̸͓͌T̵̥̍L̷̥̚E̸̦̚T̶̟̂M̸͎̃E̸͙̽O̵͈͛Ṵ̸̇T̵̡̓L̴̎͜Ḙ̸͂T̷̫͝M̵͔̀E̴̜͋Ŏ̷̘Ư̸͕T̵͂ͅL̸̡̈Ĕ̵͔T̴͖́M̸̛̫Ě̴̪O̴͖̿U̸̬̓Ṯ̵̐L̴͙͇̪͒̓͋Ë̶͔́̍̚T̶̡͂̓́̀M̷͔͈͖͓͝E̷̻͉̜̅̓O̵̺̹̹͒̒̍͝Ȕ̶̢̼͕̀͋T̴̫́͜L̶͕̿͘Ę̴͈͚̎̀͝T̷̻̣̗͋̓̅̉M̵̩͓̽͌ͅȆ̴̳Ò̵͕̙̻̩Ų̷̒͜Ț̵̢̍L̴̟̹̙͓̃E̴̱͎̖̥̒̌T̷̫̀M̵̟͌E̷̮͍̤̍͋Ǒ̷̢̺̿Ŭ̶͎̒͘Ţ̴̔̅̈̄L̸̛̯͖̰̮̯̐̾̋̆̀̽̒Ḛ̸̰̭͙͇̜̣̣͈̻̀T̶̟̲̦̣̩̔̍̿͗̈̚͜M̵̯̄̈̎͆͊̈́̋É̸̡̹͕͉̰̐̊̈́͠Ö̸͎̮͉͙́͛̆̈́͐̔̾̽͘̕͜͜͠ͅǓ̷̡̖Ṭ̷̤͓͎͑͛́͑̏̍̎̎̌Ļ̴̗͇͎̹̤͐́̓̓̈́̄̏̑͘Ḙ̸͇̝͙̝̥̠̭̈̃͂̓̕T̷̡̮̣̤̺͈͈͔͆͌̓̐̐̊̇̑͛͠M̴̢̳̻̾̄̀͆͂̌̃̚͝E̷̛̮̲̹̝̐̈́̚͜͝O̶͕͇̹͌̋͆̎͆̓̅̕Ự̶̙̞̠̰͙̦̙̹̊͒̀̏͒̒̾̈͜T̵͈̼͍̘̣̍̃͊̓̃̀̕̕L̸̟̭͌͒͑̓̏̄̽͐̓ͅE̴̲̞̭̅̌̋̀̃̚͝͠T̸̛̻̜͎͑Ḿ̴̨̼͖͉̙̰̈́̐͛͆̄̚͝͠Ḙ̵̼̥̞̹̜̆̆͗́̏́͗͒̊͆́Ơ̷̛̩̺̈́̾̀͒̓̓̚̚͜U̶̡̼̩̬͕̓̒̍̓͂͌̽̆͒T̸̗̜̪͎͓͉͛̚̚L̶̨̛͈̟̻̘̗̬͙̺̖͙̠̜̮̝̯̫̪̳̮̊̉̉̍͊̋͆̍́͗̈́͌̃̋͠͝͝͠Ę̵̙̣̳̻͕̥͈͉̬͇̥̺̝̊̀̿̓͐̀̾̄̏̊͗̄̌̕̕͜͝͠T̸̨͉͈͕͇̪̮̫̰̾́̒̔͝͝M̸̡̺̘͖̥̻̒̓̽̿̑̏̓̔̕͠É̶̛̳̳͉̲͂̍́̇̋̄̅̕Ó̴̡̧̜̫̩̝͎͇̯͍̖̳̳͉̽̇̆̒͆̐̿̑͗̄Ų̶̛̙̣̜͉͈̪͍͍̤̥̪̳͖̠̞́̍̇͛̓̇͊̽̾̽̇̽̈́̉̽̿͘͝͠ͅȚ̵̡́̽͌͂̓̈́͊̎̋͑̓̑̃̒̕L̶̡͓̰̲̳̣͍̯̪͍̤͕̫̀̋̑̍̓É̶̟͔̜̠̩̙̱̖̜̫͎̼͓͓̲̱͈Ť̴̢̼̳̑͛̍̒̽͠ͅM̸̡̹̱͇͙̯̠̯̱͔͙̟͈̠̹̦͛̆E̷̻̲̰̺̝̳͔̲̻̦̥̹̟̗͚̞͉͍̥̖̐͠O̸͇̙̓͗͂̍̄̕͝Ư̵̡̨͇̝̮̙̥̭̫̾͑͐̇̂̄̋̃͋̆̾̊̕͝ͅT̷̳͉̘͈͙̭͐̓̓̍̃͂̀̀͠͝Ļ̵̬̻̤͈͓͆̂̊͆͒͛̄̍͗͌̾̃̿͒͛̒͆͋͘͝E̵̢̛̪̭̰̣̟̝̠̣͓͓̫͙͑͊͂͛̀̿Ṫ̶̛͕̗̟̻̜͔͈̤̤͎̲̺̄̂͛̔͗͆̆̋̕̚͜M̶̜͚̙̻͔͉̹̟̪͓͖̅͂̄̍̾̚̚̚͠E̴̛̛̤̺̘̜̬̲͔͐̎̈́̈́̍͂̀̿̏͗͛̽̚͝͝͠͠ͅƠ̵͈͈͖̂̓̈́̎̿͝͝U̵̢̡͇͖̦͓͉̪̫̩͖̖̳̳͈̪͔̿̂̅͋̆͆̓͂̔̈́͝͠T̴̛̟̆̏̃͊̔͗̈́͗̄̇

  


  


  


• • •

Sasuke puts the picture back up.

• • •

“A̸r̷e̵ ̸y̶o̶u̸ ̸o̸k̷a̸y̵,̴ ̸S̶a̶s̶u̸k̶e̸?̷”

He blinks up at Sakura. His head feels heavy, stuffy, and he needs to squint at her through the fog coating his eyeballs.

“What?” His voice sounds far away; vacant.

“Are you okay?” she repeats, but he still can’t concentrate on what she’s saying because the sun is tangled in her hair and the shadow under her chin looks like a hand gripping her throat and he’s not sure what he’s doing here or what’s happening and he can’t focus he can’t focus

H  
E  
C  
A  
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F̵̢̢̡̣̗̦̳̺̲̙̄͛͗͠O̵̢̡̙̜̺̳̐̎̌͛̃̎̚C̴̘͉̣͙͈͇͔͊͒̆͛͌̾͂͝U̷̦͎̭̠͆̇̒́͜Ş̷͎͉̅͌̍.

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“H̶e̶ ̴r̵e̷a̸l̴l̷y̶ ̵d̸o̵e̶s̶n̶’̶t̵ ̴l̵o̵o̸k̷ ̶s̸o̷ ̴g̵o̴o̴d̶.”

“Ś̶̙ḥ̵̎o̵̜̅u̵̫̅l̸͈̽d̸̻̽ ̷̝̓w̸͉̿e̸̗̍ ̷̰̌g̵̅ͅĕ̴̦ṱ̶̒ ̸́͜Ḱ̶̞a̴͍͒k̵̮͛å̶͓s̴̜͠h̴͎̋ì̴̟?”

“M̸̠͉̼̦̝̯̞̰̾͗̄̎́̀͌ͅa̶̧̜͍̝̘͕͍͈̐͑̏̑̄͜͝y̶̨͇͙̮̞̻̞̤̱̼̻̚b̶̼̖̣̊̑̚ͅè̴̢̢̛̜̘͇̹̔̋̉̐̕ ̷̱̣̈́t̵̹̩̟̓̉̾̉̊ͅḧ̵͙̪͉̰̺̻̼̭́̎́̆͊̔̀̕̕͠è̴̘̌̃̏̅͋ ̷̥̤̼̰̘͙͎̮̒̀̊͛͌͐͌̚h̵͎͔̳̑͆͊̓̊̿͠o̶̧͚͛̂̓̋̍̀͛̀͐͌s̵̗̯̖̝͎̱̺̝͖̘̋̉̑́̍̐̈́p̴̧̨̞̩̙̜̭̙̜̙̅̐̃̌̄͋̓̅͝i̵͕̙̒̉̀͝t̵̳̺͇́̾́̈́͊̊̀͊ä̷̛͇͍̤̘̜́̍̾͊͋͜͠l̸̢̢̫̱̺̣̗̪̦͒̑́̍̄͜͝?”

“S̵̢̨̤͕͙̺̣̩̥͓̰͉͎̭̺̯̟͉͎̣͉̹̙̈͜a̷͉̼̝̹̰͇̭͍̭̱̭̜͑̍͂͊́̽̈̋k̶̡̡̡͓̜̻̱̹̫͍̹͎̖̬̪͑̿͂̉̽̌̅̓́͂̔̌̀̌͆̃̕͝ũ̶̢̧͇̹͖͇̰̫̳̗͙̳̤̦̉̑̓̂͐̆͘͝ŗ̴̨̧̖̰̮̼͎̻͔̦̺͉̜͙̠̱̱̫̈å̷̡̡̧̛̖̬̮̼̲̗̮̣̺͚͂͛̑̃̈͆̇̄̒́͂͑̎́̅̇͗͠͝͠,̸̧̨̧̧͕̣̦̹͎̤͙̣̘͉̯̪̬͛̔̿ͅ ̴̧̛͉̣͙͇̻͎̺̬͖̗̋̋̌̓̐̽͑̓͂̆̐̿͒́̈̏͗̾̈́̌͠͠͠I̴̧̼̮̞͚̘̞̰̮͍̔̿͐̃͋́͐̾͊͗͌̈́͊̒̈́͌̚͠ ̶̳̦͙̹̭͈͍̤̉͗̉̋͆̈̑̌̊͘͜t̵͙̥͉͇͎̹̰͙͕͉̞͕̗͈̳̩̮̗̥̹̎͌̍̇̚ḩ̶̖̻͙̩̹͖͕͈͈̭̺͕̭̹̪͎̈́̌̅̋̔͐͑͑͋͑̍̊̊̐̀̽͒̈̅̑̓̅̕͜į̸̧̳̭̜͚̹̫̘͎̮̞̤͈̠̱̹̦̲̰͚̣̤̰̇̏̂n̴̪̲͙̮͍̣͗̾̈̀͐͑͛̄̇͌̅̚͝k̵̡͓̗͐͒̄ ̸̡̧̳̟͔̺̯̘̖̪̖̣͚̹̻̱̝̥̣̾͑́͐ḥ̷̮̲̳̟̂̋̔̾̎̃͌̄̀́́̏̿̑̌̒͛̋͋̈̈́͛e̵̗̯̙̪͊̂͘’̸̡̡̘̤̱̖̯͍̱̫̙̹͓̱̼̞͖̻̪̘̟̌́͒̂́͌̌͛͐̓͊̏̓̚͝͠ͅs̷̛̩̼̥͈̱͗̈́͗̋̋̂̊̿̌̂̾̚͝͠͠͝ ̷̢̡̩̩̗͍̜̼̤́͛̄̊̄͋̋̚̕̕͜͜g̸̢̛̙͎͖̝̑̆̔͗̄̏̃̐̽͂͒̿͑̈́̏̆̄͝o̸̡̨̧͍̬͔̤̝̞̯̪̙̟͓̜̯͚̘͈̾̑͛̓̆̈́̒̀̊̐̚͘͝ͅį̷̛̜͖̙̹̖̱̉̓̎̐̏̆͆̏̓͊͆̅̂̊͒͐͌͊͑͠͝͝n̵̢̡͇̭̫̠͍͔͍̼̤̞̫͕̫̹̲̟̝̭̟̦̳̎̆́g̴͈̝̯͓̮̟̦͕̠̖̱̀̇͊̈͊̽͆̑͋͒̒̓͊̕͠ ̵̛̣̭͕̲̥̯͚̱̗̠͔̄̀̒̋̉̈̍͊̊͐̇́̉̓͑̕̚͜͠ͅ—̴̨̛̘͙̦͙̫̮͓̅́̈́̌̀͌̏͂̓͝ͅ”

“Ŝ̶̨̢̢̛̛̩͔̯̞̟̱̣̤̺͓͖̮̳̳̫̰̠͈͓̦̻̬̹̮̳̪̗͍̝̹̝̞͇͈̘̠͙̱̙͉̙̺̪̫̰̥̓͒̐̔͜͜ͅa̸̧̨͍̲̞͉͇̮̳͈͔͇̳̘̳͓͚̩̫̻͍̟̺̲̙͚̣̠̫̙̤̤͙͚̫̺͈͎̭̬̦͖͎̖̒͋ͅs̶̢̨̡̢̙͔̳͖̥̖͇̪̤̝̥̖̱̯̟͇͕̟̥̹̪̺͈̼͔͚̬̲̞͈͖̪̱̭̙͔̄ư̸̢̨̧̧̢̢̮̞̹̪͎̝̞̖̘̦̬̼̦̙̥͔̭͇̦̯̟̫̻̼̦̯̳̠̠̲̯̬̝̥͍̼͔̅̋̾̐̔̎̆̈́̓̍͑̃͊̀̉͆̈́̈̒̂͗̀͛̍̋̋͑̓̆͌͒̓̕̚͜͜͜͜͜͠͠ͅk̴̡̨̛̛͙̠̤͇̞̺̞̗͕̝̗̺͓͌͗́̈̅̈́̈́̈͛̀̍̓̀͒͛̉͋̇̂̌͗̈́́̀̇̆̑̇̆̿̄͌͐̚͘̕̚̚͝͝͝͝͝e̵̡̛̛̳̺͍̲͖̼̮̜̮̊̓̓̈̅̔̾̆͑̃͋͑͌͗̇̅́̌͑́̀̎̉͐̄͐̔́̾͑̈́̇̅̊̍̏̆̈͐͝͝͝?̷̧̧̫̖̠̖̞͕̞̖̮̝̳͙̟̪͈͙̭͍̼̱̤̻̰̳̯̳̘̠̬͆̆̉̀̊͗̆̊͜͝”

“Ş̸̨̡̢̢̡̧̨̡̢̡̧̨̛̛̛̛͙͙͍̝̗̣̜̳̮̘̞̘̝̖̹͕̞̖̪̜͙̺̥̮̟̰͇̱̝͎̲̣̞̖̮̳̦͎̝̪̪̪̣̯̘͈̙̲̗̞̣͓̰̥̭̱̲̦̲̠͙̲̳̙͍̪͖̼̹̮̯͔̼̳̟̜̻̠͔̩̣̗̮̯͙̻͔̱̤͕̙͇̙͓͕͇̭͖̪̜̭͌̆̃͑͂̓̋̀͆͂̓̿̈́͌͐̾̃̽̂̓̿̓̏͆̌̇̇͐͋̓̀͂̋̊̔̊̍͛̀͐̌͒̆̿̃̊͑̽̏̋̈̇̿̈͒͘͘̕͜͜͝͠͝͠͠ͅͅͅͅĄ̶̡̡̧̡̡̡̡̡̡̢̨̨̡̛̼͕͕̻̯̩͕̺̺͙̣͕͓͔̫̻͖̳̤̬̞͈̦̳̹͎̙͇̗̖̝̮̺̙͕͎̫̗̭̟̲̫͚̺͍͖̠̺͇̗̞̝̮̗̺̫̖̠̟̪̞̲͚͈͓̮̝̻̜͓͓̯̹͔̹̮̹̲͉̭̠̼̺̖̦̠͔̞̰̖͉̖̝̣̭̹̞̖̘͓̞̝̻͓̮̹͈̗̜͚̘̫̳̤̼͙̪̫̲̫̗̲̤̙̦͇͇̻̐̾͊͊͂̓͛͗̆̿͂̓͂̈́̂͂̾͌̂͊͆͒̿̔͐̿̇̆͛̊͂̄̎͑́̈́̏͛̎̀̃́͑͛͂́́̾̈̎̑͂̇͐̓̓̂̇̒̄̅̉̉͗̌͂̑̇̂̊͑̿̐̀̃͌͊͒̈̒̔́̀̈̎͘͘͘̕̕͘̚͜͜͝͠͝͠͝͝͠ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅŞ̸̨̢̡̧̡̧̛̭͇̥̰̞̤͙̱̣͓̲͔͎͙̫͍̹̼̥̹̠̤͉̹͇̮̝̰̟̼͎̞̦̠̪͕̱̼͈̳̦̪̝̘̬͚̬̜̹̼̥̖̭̦̝̝̝̩̥̺̪͈͈͙͓̬̯͓̰͇͕̖̱̺͉͎̱̣̲̞͖̣̼̖͇̫͚̼͇͂̉̎̈́̓̋̑͊̐͂͌̏̈́̈́͌̅̋̾̎̅͑̓̈͆̀̑̌̉́͌̃͊̓͂̋̅͛͊́̑̃̌͐̄̓̓́̋͗̓̎͌̀̈́̉͋͗̐̒̊̍̋͊͆̑̎̑͆̀̈́̆̋̈́́͗̃̉̋̒̈́̍͊̆̓̆̓̀͑̽̓̐̂̐̾͛̅̍̏̚̕͘̕̕̚̚̚͘̚͘͜͜͠͝͝͝͠͝͠͠͝͝͠ͅͅƯ̶̡̢̘̬̣̻̥͚̪͈̖̬͍̟̦̠̲͍͈͍̟͇͔̼̭̘̱͗̅̏̋͂́̄̏̈̓̏̿͋̃̑̉̀̃̏̍͛̇͒͑͋̈́̿̄́̄̐̊͊́̍̃̊̋̀̆̏̑̎͐̋̿̿̋̓̔̋͌͐͌̈͆̎͒̑̓̽̿̂͊̃͆̒͛̀͐̉͛̓̏̈̍̾̾̄̽̏́͑̇̉͑͒͊̄͆̊̏́̈́̅̄̽̉̾͛̈́̏͌͊̑̑̒̀͗̃͌̐̍̄̄́̓͊̀̏̐̍̕̚͘̕̚̕͘̚͜͜͜͝͝͠͝͠͝͝͠͠͠͝͝͠͝K̶̡̢̨̨̛͎̰͉̺͕̙̲͇͙̹͙̬͓̘̜͉̻͙̝̼͇̣̤̖̘̓̑́̀͂͐̆̐̍̽͌̉̉͗̏̍̐̾̋̄͊͆̉̍̓̈́͗̅̒̀͒̊̈́͌̃̓̏͌͗̉͒̎͊̒̏̎̂̿̿̽͗͗͗̇̉͂̓̎̎̊͗̌̒̉̀͒̆̌̾͂͛̂̔͆̓͑̈́͒̈́͑̈͘͘̕͘̕͘͜͠͝͝͠͠͝͠͠͠͝͝Ę̵̡̢̨̨̛̗̘̠̺͍͓̩̖̳̙̣̖̝̪̖̬͇̪͕̝͕͈̜͙̹͖̦̮̦̥̤̘̜̫͒̽̾̌̔̾̎́͂̊̀͑̐͑̑̇͛͒̆̉̀̿̃͗͊͛͋̐̃̂̍̔͂̆̉͋̀̄̈̆͊̔̎͑̈́͋͑͘̚͜͜͝͠͝͝ͅ—̶̢̧̡̢̛̛̛̛̛͖͍̭̘͙̠̯͈̳͇̠̬͉̯̺̩̼̦͍͓͖͈͎̘̼̤̤̠͉͖͈̜̩̻̖̣̠̽͐̑̈́͆̆̀͊̎̀͗̄͐̍̅͊͗͊̈̓̀̐̓̍͛̐̐̎̒̓́̆͛́͋̓̃̽̃̆̍̄̃̎͗̎̿̎̾̈́̔̒͛̓̐̃̉̐͐̂͂̍̈́͂̂̒̃̆̔̽̄̊͆͛̔̄̊̽̅̄̀̆̽͐̎͂̈́́̍̉̈̌̋̈́̊̈͛͋̀̾͆̚̚͘̕̚̚̕̕̕͘͜͠͝͝͝”

  


  


  


  


The world goes black.

• • •

He spends a week in the hospital. The painting isn’t there, but he still sees it every time he closes his eyes.

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Į̵͍̫͙͓̙̲͍̯͎̪͇̬̗͙̣̈́̌̈́͛͒̉͊̂͘̕ṯ̶̛̫̺͇̠̭̗̣͖̹͋̚̚͠ą̷͇̘̦̥̈͑̏̽̏̋̽͑̓͒̚͘c̸͇̥̤̥͙͇͒̇͗̓̂̀̆͆̋h̷͇̹̥͎̦̼̻͚̟͈̭̫̊̑̌̎̇̍̆̓͑̀̊͆͐͘͜͝͠ị̵̢̨̝̝͔̰̃̆̀̓̒̾̽͝͝.

I̸͎̹̳̊͐͂̊̈́͑̚t̷̡͍͚̰̱̤̠͎̥̗̰͓͎̝̳̗̅͆͋̾̈́a̸̙̘̒͌͐̿̏͐̒̋̓͛̓̔͝c̴͖̿͒̈͗̌̔̕͝h̸̡̩͙̱̺̤͙̻̯̳͙̱̻̀͜i̶̢͉̮̮͙̝̻̜̝͖͈̺̮͓͂͌̿͆̑̈̎̏̿̏͝ ̷̲̳͈̰̠̟͇͙̖͋̀̈́̆͒̂̔̓̃̾̏͑͠͝͠ị̴̭͚̮̝̝̣̫͍͈̝̺͎̯̭̓̚s̷̡͎̜̖̤̤͚͍̓̑̌̌̉̊̀́̈́̔̇͘̚͘̚ ̵͇̾́̎̓͗͑͐͗̎͒̽̄̕͝b̵̟̰̉̉̍̕ą̷̧̘̳͕̔̈͑̄c̵͖̖̪̬͙͌͌̃̐̆͗͂̌͋̎̀͋͆̆̚͘k̷͉̝̞͎͈̟̠͙̹̼̺͈̪̲̒͜ ̴̛͈͉̻͖̓̉̓̆͊̚͠a̶̰͕͎͔̦͓̪̙͌̉̈͒̂̂ͅn̸̢̨͙̹̣̬̹̗̬͙͈̊͐d̸̨̪̣̯̣̱̬̪̪̞̦̪͑͜͜ ̴̮̥̙͙̼̘͕̼̹͐͒̉̿̏̿̑̈̉̚͝͝h̸͙͛̎̎̏̇̊̈̽͘͘͠͠e̷̢̘̼͉̻̙̲͖͋̂́̔͋̂̚ ̸̛͇͙̰͎̖̲̖̺͙̰̦̩̪̼͍̋̿͗̈́͗͝ͅw̸͈̺̙̟͙̓̿̇̃͜i̴̡͕̮̩̰̹̾l̸̢̲̗͈̀̕l̶̨̢̰̼͉͔͖͔͉̳͙̲̦̠͋̉̏̉̀́̐̍͘ ̵̻̲̤̲͈̲̹̼̞͖̣̤̱̈́̔̇͋͐͠f̶̡̺̹͋͑̾̓͘ǐ̵̧̡̱̭͓̙̹̭̽̈́̄̐̒̇̎̍͌̂̂̓͝n̷͖̬̲͇͕̜̱̰̯̬̼͖͛͗̈̕ͅͅd̷̢̺̺͖̑̎̓̔̒̽̀͂͆̑̄̚ ̴̢̯̣̠̠̗̲̮̭̖̿̐͗̊̐͑͆͂͒̉́͆̚n̷̡͖͎͕͙͚̦͚͖͉̯̬͍̿̔̌͒̎͆͋͜ö̵̢͍̺͉͈̎ ̸̮̮͔̹͖̝͉̱̥͙͔̯͊̈́̆͒̄̌̇͑͘̕̕p̵̨̙̠̥̣̹̞̺̱̱̬̼͖͊̔̆̉͌̓͋̕ě̴̮͎͍͉͕̉̆̄̓̀̊̐̃̏͛ȧ̸̝̻̪̪̥͕̥͈̱̀̊̈́͜ͅc̸̱͚̯̫̣̗͙̰̝̺̪̓̀̐̃e̷̘͎͓͉̱̲̩͈̔́̅͑̚͝ͅ.̴̝͙̂

  


• • •

The rasengan is the same color as the blue paint. Sakura’s dress the same shade as the red.

And him? He’s the black.

• • •

Sasuke is not allowed to leave the village. But this, of course, does not stop him from going.

He steps into his apartment, grabs a few of his things. Practical things — weapons and scrolls. He leaves the rest; he doesn’t need any of it anymore.

He’s all but ready to leave, his bag firmly against his back, when he catches sight of the painting.

The carpet wraps itself around his feet and he almost trips. He’s rooted to the spot, and the picture is staring at him. _Assessing_ him. Waiting. 

He stares back at it, cocks his head. Watches as the ebony vines grip at the colors. Squeezing them. Smothering them. And he can’t look away.

.  
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He thinks he understands now.

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He leaves the painting behind and walks out.

The shadows consume him.

**Author's Note:**

> For everyone who read this weird ass story: thank you!


End file.
